Every night I fear my death. Utterly alone, enveloped by darkness and gripped with angst, I lie still unwilling to disown that which is me, my awareness, my fears, my volition and will. My lover's breathing next to me gentle and soft reassures me of the safety of sleep. I remain unconvinced, tentative, yet knowing that night as surely will carry me aloft as my passing will make her weep. How is it that I slip from me, undetected, unobserved? It is as I imagine death to be: slow, invisible and well deserved. I suffer not at the hands of some medical disorder eruditely dicussed in the journals of medicine, or the highlands of psychology. Nay, more closely border my ails the struggles in history's annals, of philosophers faced with eternity than a lunatic's infirmity. Exhausted, naked under the sheets it is a wretch that Morpheus finally greets A vixen still reluctant a mind no longer puissant. So I fade and fall into his embrace and vanish without a trace, but only to my surprise in the morn once more arise somehow intact, relieved, and in one piece from my repose, refreshed and at peace! So magically do I again come together with all my cares, memories and hopes that I truly can't help but wonder whether after my final slumber such ropes used to ring a bell to keep poor devils like me from hell may not come in handy, welcome and absolutely dandy! [12/21/02]